Logon, Ready? Run
by Very Alter Ego
Summary: A Class-based, First-Person Shooter; Valve's kid that builds pillow forts and tries to train the family cat in the art of warfare; the best Free-To-Play online game there ever was, teaching children that imaginary hats cost real money. We call it Team Fortress 2. War never changes, but the rag-doll physics always make you laugh. Self-insert, WITH AN UN-FREAKING-BELIEVABLE TWIST!
1. Server of a Down

_**Why am I doing this? I was inspired by a DeviantART sketch by Taklay yankovic (i.e. 'TF2 - What is this, I don't even') and interesting insert fiction is hard to come by. In all honesty, though, this is little more than a fun, writing exercise for me. I'll see if I can boot out a chapter in a day or so and try and keep up the pace, and not worry myself over little details like length or overarching plot and things like that.**_

_**Long story short, I've currently lost my passion for my old story. I'm not just going to cut it without warning, but I need to rekindle my passion for writing before I feel I can really do anything. I've been playing TF2 since the 2013 Halloween event, where I played for about five minutes before the lag body slammed my computer and the server crashed and died in a fire.**_

_**By the by, I have read exactly ONE Team Fortress 2 comic to date ('Doom Mates', if you're interested. I know you're not, so don't worry), mostly because I'm lazy. So, in the interest of avoiding angry players who think I've messed up the canon to get on people's nerves, let's say this fanfic is based on GAME-LOGIC as opposed to COMIC-LOGIC. In the mean-time, I'll see if I can get around to reading some more to get my facts straight.**_

_**I can't stress this enough: You really, really cannot take this work seriously. It's crack in a flapjack. Just like Team Fortress 2 itself. But seriously, drop me a line if you feel the need to explain important TF2 canon facts to me.**_

**Logon, Ready…Run - Server of a Down**

…

"-And… blacklisted."

A quick mouse click brings me back to the starting screen of Team Fortress 2, having booted myself off of a server full of nothing but bots and a butt-load of annoying adverts.

If I wanted to play with bots, I'd just crank up the Training mode. At least then I could get straight to the massive, graphically rendered A.I. murder without any dicking about.

In all honestly though, I'd found myself doing training more and more as time went on, and not just from a lack of players or severs. When one of your regular playing buddies is feeding a relapsed Skyrim addiction and a few others are moving house, finishing university or other time-consuming activities, available team-mates become quite scarce quite quickly.

I turn and shoot a glance out the window. Blue skies and a warm breeze floats over the rooftops. Shame the temperature is reaching 37 degrees under the shade. At least there's a legitimate reason I'm not outside doing productive things instead of squandering my life away.

Hey, it's better than watching TV. Although in this day and age, experimenting with puppies and gravity is more wholesome and fun than TV.

I drag up my inventory screen and give another once-over look at all the loot I've accumulated.

"Hmm…I have a few spares, but not enough to craft some refined metal at the moment…"

I flick to the character load-out screens, making a few weapon adjustments and removing the Halloween gear from the Medic.

"Pity the next full moon isn't for another two and a half weeks…"

I bring up the messages board on Steam.

I started TF2 quite late considering how long the game had been around. Having received The Orange Box as a gift three years ago for PC, I had installed everything, and then proceeded to busy myself with Portal and Half-Life 2 before falling to the demands of school and social obligations.

About a two years later, after about a minute and a half of consideration, I booted up the programme under the impression that I had the silly game on my computer, I might as well give it a try just because there's only so long one can play Pokémon on a computer emulator.

Holy hell, I thought, this is cluster-f*** of FUN.

Granted, I'd started by jumping straight into a server full of players as a Medic and swiftly got mutilated from multiple sources repeatedly, but still, one of the best 40 minutes of my gaming life.

Actually, Snipers. Yeh, I got destroyed by Snipers. Taunted by everything else but murdered by Snipers.

One head-shot me while I was still inside the spawn. Right inside the spawn.

Bloody campers.

Since that fateful day of body blitzing crit-rockets and urine-shooting sniper rifles, I re-evaluated my former opinion of the game and quickly started to accumulate hour after hour after hour of play-time.

Maps and classes began to cement themselves in my mind and muscle memory, items dropped out of the digital sky as if hurled down from the heavens by a shouty, Australian man-god and achievements popped up from time-to-time like that one shiny Pokémon you saw but your level 80 starter's weakest attack got a critical hit and knocked it to oblivion.

I temporarily quit the game and get up from my worn-down computer chair to fetch a drink.

TF2 is just so wonderfully organic.

Games where cock-ups are more fun and fulfilling than actually doing well and where your finest moments are ones where you've actually lost are really on the endangered list as of the last few years.

One time I was a Medic with a full uber on Upward. I ran out from a building to reach a Demoman who was under fire and activated the Ubercharge. The beam was closing in at five feet, four, three, two, one…

And the Demoman exploded from a crit rocket.

Standing dumbstruck for a few seconds, I realised my uber was rapidly depleting and there was no one around I could give it to.

Just as I decided to try and retreat with as much dignity as I could, I spotted another friendly Medic doing the bone-saw fandango with an enemy Scout and losing. I make a leap over to him and give him a nice dose of invulnerability.

He promptly slices and dices the jumpy pest, before jumping down to my level and treating me to my first ever TF2 high-five animation, while a voice in my head squealed 'Medic high-five!'

It was like playing with excitable kittens on a morphine high.

That's me, you understand, not the kittens.

For the record, our side still lost the match. Completely worth it, though.

I sit myself back down in front of the flickering screen and start up Team Fortress 2 again. I take a sip of my drink as the Valve logo flashes up followed by the nostalgia-mimicking action music.

I click on 'Servers' and start scrolling through.

"Okay, server full…server full…randomised weapons map…Oh, God. Not an achievement farming map…Mario ones are fine, but I'd like to play an actual game…Can do jump maps 'cause I fail at rocket jumping…CTF, No, no, no, no, no…"

I click in the corner of the screen displaying game modes. I quickly select scroll down to the Control Points modes.

"Haven't done Gorge in a while." The list momentarily calibrates itself and reappears.

"That's another bot map…full…full…International server, the lag would be phenomenal on this thing. It lags badly enough on normal servers…"

I keep scrolling down until the list hits the bottom.

There's two bot maps with no one on them, a full server and…

The final sever has no name. Whereas other servers are actual names, or things that pass for names in this day and age, the space is just left blank. The info displays the 'cp_gorge' and that there's 18 players currently on there, but no server maximum number.

Okay, I'll bite. Even on the bot and trading servers you can't muck up the info that much. Looks like someone's hacked the game. I just take a peek in spectator mode or something and see what this is all about. If it's a con, I'll jump ship. I click on the button labelled 'Connect.'

A window pops up. The black box requests a password.

Aw, piss.

Well, I don't know. How about 'TF2'?

Incorrect.

'Team Fortress 2'?

Incorrect.

'Saxon Hale'…Oh, no wait – 'SAXON HALE'?

Incorrect.

'Gabe Newell'?

Incorrect.

What do you want from me?

What would be the point of having a fake/scam server if nobody can get onto it?

You sir, have defeated the purpose of putting up this server. I laugh in your general direction.

I take another sip.

Numerical password, maybe?

Okay, dumbest thing I can think of in five…

'1234'?

Incorrect.

'0616'?

Incorrect.

I huff. "Be picky, why don't you?"

Well, if they know anything TF2… Best pass code ever, in my opinion.

'1…1…1…_he, he_…1.'

I click 'Connect'.

The dominant sensation that overcomes me is like standing in front of an airlock as it opens. A stronger and much more overwhelming feeling akin to having someone pull you out through a window you were leaning out of. Nausea _Falcon Punches_ me in the chest area

Final thoughts as the world implodes around me?

_Nailed it._

…

You know when you dream that you're falling from a large height (let's say from a cliff), and then, right as you hit the bottom, you wake up lying on your bed?

Dazed, disorientated and slightly ill?

Welcome to right now.

I pull myself up into a vague foetal position until the thought of movement doesn't make me sick to my stomach. I look up.

I'm stuck in a room. A room with three doors and an old, miniature TV set sitting upon a small brown table between them. One door is red with the RED logo and writing written upon the glass, along with its blue BLU counterpart besides it. Across from the two, sits the flickering, black-and-white TV screen, the quiet sound of static emanating from it. Besides it, away from the other doors, stands a grey cousin with no logo and only the word 'Random' scrawled on the glass.

I carefully pull myself to my feet, wobbling slightly from the fact my legs have been replaced with jelly shaped like legs.

"Alright," I croak. "I'm going to take this nice and slow…"

I step forward and take a peek into the glass of the RED door. Although the glass is perfectly transparent, if not easy to look through, I can't see anything on the other side. I repeat this and get the same results with the other doors.

I move over to where the TV is. I bend down in front of the screen and give the knobs on the front a few twists to see if there's any improvement. The static flickers and fluxes, but no images appear out of the analogue fog.

So…there's not match going on? Or I can't spectate? I straighten back up, looking from door to door.

Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

I move over to one of the gateways.

"I guess…Random?"

Tensing myself for being hit by another vacuum experience, I give the handle on the grey door a turn. With a quiet, clean squeak, the door opens up. No Unrelenting Force comes to pushes me off of my feet. I hesitantly slip the door open further and pear inside. The room is pitch black and I can't tell how big it is. As stealthily as possible, I gently trend inside, eyes facing forward and hand moving to catch the door before it closes completely.

My fingers miss on the door edge, allowing it to swing back and shut with a heavy click.

Light bursts into the room, sending disorienting flashes across my vision for a few minutes, before I'm able to take in a white room with blue accents, containing a long bench.

I spare a glance at the door behind me. There's no handle on this side of the door from what I can see.

I gulp and a chill goes down my spine.

_I hope to freaking hell I can get out of this…_

I turn back to the bench. It's as white as the rest of the room with blue details and appears to fade into the wall. On it are figures. TF2 figures.

"Jeeze, these things are huge…"

They are akin to the same ones I've seen at Comic-Con and the like; the high-grade, collector's stuff with the really fine detailing. They're about 60 cm tall, with slight variations depending on the heights of the characters in question, each standing on a circular pedestal of the TF2 logo. All the characters are wearing the uniform of the BLU team. In front of each is a small screen and two buttons, one red and one yellow.

I stroll along the table, getting a good look at each one of the characters. These aren't the stock standard character models; the Soldier has a pair of shades on under his helmet, the Medic's backpack is that of the Quick-Fix rather an the normal one, The Pyro has the Degreaser as opposed to his-

Wait…these are _my_ character load-outs!

Looking down further at the buttons, the red one reads 'Select', while the yellow reads 'Change Load-out'.

I press the yellow one in front to the Pyro. The little screen switches on. The TF2 load screen.

I press the screen where 'Misc.' is displayed. The screen changes and the list of hats, badges and other items pop up. I press on the little Balloonicorn.

The screen changes back, but now with the cuddly toy highlighted under 'Misc.' In front of me, a floating Balloonicorn appears over the shoulder of my Pyro. I press 'Done' on the screen and it goes black.

I move over, acting purely on automatic, until I'm standing in front of the BLU Sniper figure.

I take in a breath.

And press the little red button.

The last sensation I have is like stepping out from a cool, air-conditioned room into the middle of the desert.

The world turns off.

…

Sometimes Gorge is a big place with five checkpoints. Other times it's a small place with only two. A sane man would wonder why there would be all these seemingly unnecessary renovations to the building's structure just to accommodate two mercenary groups hell-bent on repeatedly capturing the same location over and over.

Safe to say, BLU Soldier is not a sane man.

Just for the record, his RED counterpart doesn't win any points, either. But that's beside the point.

Actually, come to think about it, no one on either team meets any known definition of the word 'sane'-

"ENOUGH WITH YOUR CANDIAN PROPAGANDA, YOU SALAD-EATING PENCIL PUSHER!"

Sorry, sir!

Gotta go, guys…If you make it, see you at the end of the chapter.

…

Satisfied with the response and departure of the narrator, the permanently angry American turned away to address his fearless, manly battalion-

"Yo, Solly. Who da hell are ya-"

"SHUT YOUR TRAP, TWINKLE-TOES!"

The BLU Scout jumped back as if scolded. He jumped back even further when the BLU Soldier stuck his finger way too close to face, and barked, "THIS IS A HIGH-STAKES OPERATION AND I DON'T NEED ANY HIPPIE-PINKO WRITER FLOATING AROUND SPYING ON US!"

The Boston raised a single, disbelieving eyebrow and backed up from the patriot, muttering something about mental people and deep ends.

Target now out of sight, Soldier once again tried to summon the attention of his noble band of soldiers. The others had better things to do.

Demoman was taking great swigs from his usual brown bottle of booze, giving the bottle a trial swing to test the weapon's effectiveness as more and more liquid was drained from it. The bottom half of Heavy Weapons Guy's body could be seen sticking out of the supply locker. The top half was inside looking for a Sandvich. Pyro, ever the normal one, was rocking out on his fire axe.

The BLU Engineer was adjusting his wrench, while the Medic was carefully applying the medigun's healing rays to him and his remaining team-mates, stern and collected in his work. Further away from the main group, Sniper was sitting up against a blue barrel, giving his much-used sniper's rifle a last-minute polish with a worn-out cloth. The BLU Spy was deep in thought, leaning against the wall.

He wasn't really, but nobody usually bothered him when he did this, so it was a good ruse.

Scout was, however, bored and slightly annoyed by Soldier's dismissal, so he was poking the man of a thousand and eight faces with his baseball bat.

"Stop it, you childish simpleton."

"Make me, ya freakin' backstabber!"

BLU SPY used GLARE!

It had no effect!

Foe BLU SCOUT used POKE!

BLU SPY is getting AGITATED!

BLU SPY used THREATEN WITH REVOLVER!

Foe BLU SCOUT ran away!

In the minute-or-so all this had been going on, Soldier had gotten _really_ tired of being ignored by the team.

So he resorted to his 'angry' voice.

"_**LISTEN UP, MAGGOTS! I INTEND TO SEND EVERY ONE OF THOSE DIRTY REDS BACK TO WHAT-EVER COMMIE HELL THEY CRAWLED OUT OF, SO I EXPECT NOTHING BUT THE BEST FROM EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU SORRY ASSES, EVEN IF I HAVE TO DRAG YOU OUT TO THE BATTLEFIELD BY YOUR BA-"**_

The speakers scattered around the base crackle to life, followed by a harsh, female voice announcing in an official tone, "Mission begins in five…"

Chatter amongst the group ceases almost immediately. The BLU Sniper threw the rag on the barrel and stood up while the Spy straightened up and leaned away from the wall. Soldier let out a huff that his awesome and inspiring speech had been cut short, but what the hell. It's time to reduce some hippie scum to floor ketchup for America, he smirked at the thought.

"Four…" Pyro gives his flamethrower a test spurt, the Medic quickly side-stepping before the little flame sets fire to the tail of his long, white lab coat.

"Three…" The Demoman takes a final, emptying swig from the bottle, before stowing it away somewhere and bring out his grenade launcher.

"Two…" Heavy gave his prized minigun Sasha a gentle pat.

"One…" The BLU Soldier bangs his trusty shovel against his helmet; one for Uncle Sam, one for Lady Liberty, one for luck, one to fix his sudden headache and one for ribs. _American_ ribs.

Off in the distance, an old air raid siren blasts as the chain-linked metal doors shoot open.

From the cold, concrete depths of the BLU re-spawn room, eight semi-crazy mercs burst into action. The ninth has a quick smoke.

"CHARGE!"

"Hav' at 'em, lads!"

"Raus, raus!"

"HERE I COME!"

"Yeehah!"

"God save the Queen!"

"Mhmmhm!"

"Play ball!"

The BLU Spy merely snakes his head at the passing human stampede, before smartly adjusting his tie.

A button press on his odd, silver wristwatch and the suited man fades from view.

"Shall we?" He asks no one in particular, after which the soft clip-clop of fine, Italian shoes retreats down the hall and out into the battlefield.

Outside the battlements, the distance cacophony of rockets, rifles, sentries and shotguns echoes around the area, easily bypassing the thick walls of the BLU's own stronghold.

Yells of triumph turn into screams of agony, in turn to be placed by other triumphant calls, and so on; all constantly accompanied by the sound of flying shrapnel and the faint smell of burning human flesh.

Like a drill bit explosion in a sausage factory.

Within the small concrete block of a re-spawn room, the familiar _cha-chink_ of re-spawn dropping off an unfortunate clicks in the stillness.

One would be forgiven for thinking that the BLU Sniper met his first demise very early in the game.

However, most would quickly point out that the Sniper had been seen leaving with his custom-made rifle, rather than the stocky wooden bow and arrows of the Huntsman, both hands protected by brown, finger-less gloves.

The large, serrated kukri knife that hung from his belt that went by its product name of 'Bushwacka' was also not part of Sniper's usual set. His clothes, the normal blue-based sniping attire, was joined by a small, golden badge displaying his class symbol depicting a sniper rifle's scope.

And while the Sniper originally left the spawn room with a calm and professional expression on his face, the man that stands here now looks as if he skydived off the Empire State building without a parachute while being shown the really disturbing/gory bits from 'The Human Centipede.'

Hands primed and arrow loaded as if ready to draw his bow at a moment's notice, one can just notice his breathing as his chest rises and falls, shell-shock apparent even through the yellow-tinted aviators that covers his eyes.

A moment's silence passes, before the Australian assassin takes his free hand off the Huntsman to bring it slowly up to his face. He stares at the rough, masculine appendage for a few seconds, turning it around to get a full view of it, tensely inspecting the short, slightly dirty nails and the tanned skin hardened by sun, blistering metal and hard work.

The pseudo-BLU Sniper moves the hand to face, where he gently starts to feel his chin as if touching the lean, chiselled jaw for the first time in his life.

The slight tension that had started to build up since he had dropped literally out of nowhere into the re-spawn room reaches a rather weighty crescendo as the Sniper stares wide-eyed at nothing, before opening his mouth and letting out a breathy whisper.

"…Bloody hell, I 'ave stubble…"

_**HAPPY NEW YEAR! I MADE IT IN BEFORE 2013 ENDED, SUCKERS! :)**_

_**~NEXT CHAPTER TEASER!~**_

And just what the hell is going on… down…

Oh, God…Don't think about the weight between your legs, FOR GOD'S SAKE, DON'T THINK ABOUT THE WEIGHT BETWEEN YOUR LEGS!

_**~NEXT CHAPTER TEASER END!~ **_


	2. Pretty Fly (For a RED Spy)

_**Oh, for a really world-class psychiatrist… **_

_**CAUTION: THIS CHAPTER CONTAIN AN UNUSAL AMOUNT OF SALIVA**_

**Logon, Ready…Run – Pretty Fly (For a RED Spy)**

* * *

I slap the large, male hands over my, _his_, mouth. There's a wooden thump as the Huntsman hits the floor.

Holy Christ-burgers, I feel sick. And the yellow tint to my vision isn't helping matters.

I feel taller, leaner, slightly dirtier and not even the slightest bit feminine.

And just what the hell is going on… down…

…

Oh, God…Don't think about the weight between your legs, FOR GOD'S SAKE, DON'T THINK ABOUT THE WEIGHT BETWEEN YOUR LEGS!

_That_ particular thought leaves me failing my arms in an attempt not to put my hands anywhere near my…crotch.

I'm not my right age, height, profession or freaking gender! And if I hadn't picked the Sniper I wouldn't even be my correct nationality.

I look down at the bow and arrow. I haven't fired one of these things since PE in high school. I scoop the Huntsman back up into my hands.

I experimentally load the arrow and test the string. Surprisingly, I able to pull back to the fullest extent without straining myself, for quite a long time. Not too shabby. I thought I'd lost the arm strength, considering I've haven't done this for years.

Wait, not my body. Thirty-something Australian assassin's body. In the TF2 universe.

Double-wait, isn't this where players resp-

I half-inhale my next breath.

Get out of the room, get out of the room, before someone sees you!

I make a mad dash down the side corridor leading to the smaller exit. I scramble down the hallway and throw myself around the corner, letting out a moderate "Oomph!" as my back slams against the wall.

A soft cha-chink sound echoes behind me followed an angry yell from, the one and only, Scout. I sneak a peek around the corner. It's the BLU Boston base-ball player, alright.

"Freak'n geeze, man!" He huffs, angrily.

Quick, light footsteps take off, thankfully in the opposite direction from me. He disappears through the main door.

I let out a breath I'd been holding in, before slowly walking further down the hall to the other chain link door. It shoots up as I approach.

This is going to be the craziest round of Team Fortress 2 I've ever played.

* * *

Off in a little corner away from the prying eyes of the enemy team, the sound of electronic beeps accompanied the rhythmic thwack of metal on metal as BLU Engineer made his final adjustments to the sentry.

The labourer gave the machine a final bash before wiping his sweaty forehead with the back of his glove-covered hand. Before he can move on to upgrade the disperser humming besides him, the gravel behind him crunches.

He turns sharply, shotgun cocked and at the ready, to face whoever had the gall to sneak up behind him.

The grimace on his face is replaced by a strained, yet sincere smile. "What brings you here, Sniper?"

The BLU sharpshooter returns it with a small one of his own. "Bullets don't grow on trees, mate."

The Engineer gives light chortle. "I'm almost finished upgrading the thing. Give me a sec'." He says, readying his wrench. He gives the device a good hammering before there's a light clunking sound and two supply drawers shoot out from the sides of the machine, signifying its ascension to level 2.

He turns to sharpshooter, only to see the Sniper is staring off into the control point area with a serious look on his face. Serious enough to make the Engineer pause in his work.

"Do yah see what Oi see?" The bushman asks, quietly.

"See what there, slim?" the Texan questions. The Australian lifts a digit to point to his target.

The Engineer followed the sharp-shooter's finger.

By the large pine tree, crouching behind large block of concrete, was the BLU Sniper. He was peering over the slab, while in his hands he was drawing back the bow on the Huntsman and releasing it, testing how taunt the string was.

"You think he's a-" The Engineer ventures.

The Sniper cuts in. "A Spoi? You bet Oi bloody do."

The hard-hatted man exchanged a look with his colleague. "Doesn't he know you're usin' your-"

The doppelgänger quickly stood up from behind his cover and let an arrow fly. With a whoosh the projectile whizzed through the air (which turned slightly blue if one was paying enough attention to look) and impaled a reloading RED Soldier right through the head with such force the army man's corpse was left stuck to the wall.

There was a stunned silence from the two watching men as the other Sniper left his cover and made his way across the bridge.

"Is it just me," The Engineer ventured, "Or did that Spai just get 'a headshot?"

The Australian didn't reply for a minute. "Wot' the bloody 'ell is goin' on?" He asks. The Engineer doesn't supply an answer.

The two stared at the doorway into the RED building the 'BLU Sniper' went in.

"Something ain't right about that." The Engineer turned back to see to his dispenser. "If you run into anyone, y'all might want ta tell them what you saw."

The assassin takes a full load of rifle bullets from the device and tips his hat to his friend. "Will do, truckie." He stalks off to do his own hunting.

And if that hunting brought him up against the Spy disguised as him…all the better.

* * *

I got a kill! I got an actual kill with an actual bow and arrow!

Ooh, that felt so good! Satisfaction and euphoria at the same time. I Pinned up against the wall with an arrow imbedded in his central nervous system! There was the ding and everything! I was saw his head and went for it! Right. Through. The. Head.

I mentally pause in my congratulatory tirade. Since when was I this overjoyed with death, let alone with me causing it?

I sneak my way around the large metal drums and peek down the corridor by the staircase. Empty.

Should I climb up the stairs and snipe from the balcony area, or stay on ground level and take shots at anyone coming out of the door.

Easier to get stuck or snuck up on from the balcony, but someone might see me from the ground…

And if the other Sniper spots me-

A strange muffled noise ahead of me causes me to tense and draw back the bow. I start backing up as footsteps echo down the hallway. A figure enters my field of view.

At this point, the words that left my lips were the ones that run through all the minds of TF2 players.

"Aw, piss. Not a Pyro." Yes, the RED gas-masked, rainbow-loving fiend himself.

I reverse away as the RED asbestos-wearing fire-bug, who is being followed closely by a Medic, charges towards me. I aim at the Pyro's head and let it go.

The Pyro dodges. The Medic doesn't.

The German doctor takes the hit directly in the left eye. A loud, clear ding rings in my head as the man grasps his head before dropping to the floor with an agonised wail. The momentary surge of pleasure is cut brutally short, as it is clear that the Pyro isn't stopping.

I try to backpedal. He closes the gap between us.

In utter desperation, I reach down to grab a hold of anything, any weapon whatsoever.

My hand closes around the cool glass jar of-

The little blue flame of the pilot light suddenly gives way to a raging stream of fire. He blasts me. The searing heat is everywhere.

"OI'M ON FIRE!" The cry bursts from me instinctually as my chest tightens and heaves in pain.

The Pyro continues to torch me without mercy.

I let out a final, mangled scream. "Gaahhh!"

All feeling suddenly leaves my body and I collapse onto my side, like a puppet with it strings cut. I lie on the ground unable to move, suddenly feeling like I've been thrown out of my own body.

For a minute or so, it's as if I'm watching a movie someone has paused, as the RED fire-starter stands there fixed mid-taunt, flamethrower held high above its head in triumph.

I'm suddenly yanked away from the scene of him standing over my charred Sniper hide, and the vertigo is replaced by a dream-like flying sensation, as I'm whisked up over the battlefield.

I watch as BLU Spy stalks around the RED spawn area, quickly planting a sapper on a teleporter entrance, before being chased off and gutted by the newly respawned RED Soldier. The BLU Heavy and the Medic uber-charge in towards the final control point, mowing down the Scout and the Demoman, before being pinned down by the suppressive fire from a level 3 sentry.

A familiar force pulls me down out of the air, and with a weighty cha-chink back to terra firma, I re-land in spawn. My left hand clutches against the fabric of the shirt where my heart roughly sits, and I stand there trying to get over the sensation of being burned alive and, subsequently, killed.

A second full-body shudder brings something important to my attention.

I'm not holding the Huntsman anymore.

In my right hand is a full container of Jarate.

_Jarate._

And just what is Jarate, you may ask...?

I have literally been heaving around a jar full of piss ever since I got here.

I'd be really freaking scared if this thing was warm…

I look away from the jar in disgust. _That_ doesn't even bear thinking about.

Oh God…If I had used this against the Pyro…

I would've to…reload this. Manually.

…

I look down at the glass jar, watching the yellow liquid slosh around in it.

I make a disgusted face as my stomach heaves. "Oi've got ta change my weapon's load out."

My vision turns to grey. "Holy dooly!" I jump back in shock.

I recognise this; this is the weapons load out screen for each character. Right in front of my eyes stands a miniature version of me as the Sniper, as if being beamed straight into my head. The rest of the world around me is grey.

"Ah…"

"Secondary weapon?" I venture, seeing if it will get a response.

It does. The view changes, showing the various items I can use in my secondary weapon slot. SMG's and back shields, among other things.

So, what to substitute for the Jarate? Well, virtually anything at this point. Hmm…

Considering I am playing the game for real, extra protection is definitely welcome. Especially from sneaky backstabbing enemies…

"Razorback." I say.

The image changes back, only this time the Razorback is placed under the weapons slot.

"Ah...Okay?"

The grey vanishes as does the image. I'm left standing by myself in the respawn room, still holding the jar of piss. "Wot? But Oi thought Oi-Oh, wait. Resupply locker."

I walk over to the weapon's locker. The doors swing open, revealing the painted, wooden oval shield. I place the Jarate down on the shelf and touch the Razorback.

The cover vanishes as the doors close. Something drops around my shoulder-blades, rigid yet not uncomfortable. The weight of the wooden shield is barely noticeable.

Another cha-chink sounds behind me, followed by a sobbing cry and a deep, sudden belch. I turn to see the BLU Demoman give a great heaving, teary sigh as he wipes his dribbling nose against his sleeve.

He moans, "Ah feel like every bone in me body's brock." He continues to sniffle.

I stare at him, not entirely sure how to respond. He hiccups as he bows his head.

"…Are you okay-"

The Black Scottish Cyclops suddenly rears up, his single eye red and bloodshot, from the alcohol or his sudden death is anyone's guess.

Screaming in fury, the demolition's 'expert' charges passed me out the door.

"…mate?"

I just shake my head.

"Mental…" I say, quietly. I search on my person for the Huntsman, only to find it in, what is essentially, a back pocket of my pants which it couldn't possibly have been stored in.

"Eh…pocket dimension, and I'll leave it at that." I say out loud.

I run into the BLU's courtyard. Just as I'm about to head up the cement ramp, a flash of BLU and an ear-ripping shout send me slamming my back up against the stack of barrels. I peek out around my cover to see exactly what is happening.

The BLU Demoman has been momentarily detained on his way (to dismantle the enemy team, probably) by the team's resident nut-bar, BLU Soldier.

With absolutely no desire to meet, arguably the craziest person to ever exist, I sink down behind the barrels. At the very least, I can wait until the two of them have gone.

Over my cover, the sound of Soldier's voice floats through the air like a very loud brick.

"Listen, you dress-wearing drunk! Engie has reported to me that a spy has infiltrated our ranks!"

The intoxicated mercenary takes this to mean entirely the wrong thing.

His head shoots up and he turns wildly around to try and find the offender. "There's a SPY! SPY! SPY 'ROUND HERE!" He hollers.

"_SHHHH!_"

The Soldier all but stuffs his closed fist into the Demoman's mouth in a slightly less painful variant of a punch.

"We don't want him to know we know it's him, maggot!" He hisses at the drunk man.

Demoman's only reply is to drool on the Soldier's hand. Soldier takes this to mean he can continue with his sharing of information.

"Hardhat says he's disguised as our Sniper, with that sissy bow and arrow the hippie camper uses." He whispers.

Demoman moans a little, either agreeing with Soldier's assessment of the weapon or because having his hand in his mouth hurts.

"But he also says that the Spy has found a way of using our own weapons against us! Without losing his disguise!" Soldier continues in a hushed and angry tone.

The Demoman's eye opens in shock. "Waaaat?!" He spits from behind the closed fist.

The Soldier nods seriously, before he leans in close the Scotsman, a crooked smirk appearing on his face.

"However, we're on to his little trick and I intend to blow the frog back to France in A THOUSAND PIECES! I'LL SHOW THAT BACK-STABBER HOW TO WIN A WAR, THE SNAIL-EATING MAGG-"

In an act of karmatic realignment, the Demoman inserts his own appendage into the Soldier's open mouth.

"_SHHHH!_" The Scot mumbles. "'Eel 'ear 'oo!"

A dawning look of comprehension appears on the Soldier's face. "Oo, 'ife!" He replies.

The two remove their hands from each other's mouths, wiping the accumulated spittle off on their uniforms.

"Now, move out! And remember to alert everyone if you see that Spy!" The Soldier finishes.

"Aye!" His compatriot agrees. I sink further down behind the barrels, more than a little pale and feeling just about as nauseous as when I landed here.

Ooh, this ain't good. This is the polar opposite of good.

I've already been set on fire today, I'm not going to stick around to see what being blown to pieces feels like. The crit rockets, they haunt me…Oooohh…

Okay, go back into respawn and switch to the stock loadout- But I suck using the sniper rifle. Maybe if I sneak past or wait till they've gone, I can just hide in a nice, dark corner somewhere.

Oh, God. This is just me picking who I want to get killed by now.

I'm jolted out from my reverie back the sound of the chain-link gate opening and shutting.

I turn around to witness the BLU team's Medic and Heavy, trotting out from the depths of respawn. Obviously, their Ubercharge into RED base didn't end in a successful capture.

"Vhat are you doing, Herr Sniper?" the Medic inquires.

"Ah… "

Oh, God. Let this work…

I turn and point over my shoulder at the two conversing mercs. "The Soldier is a Spoi!"

The two men look at each other and then back to me.

"Are you sure?" The German doctor asks.

There's a quiet moment as I hold an internal breath. "Yeh." I reply.

The Medic looks up at his large comrade. "Vell, I'm convinced." The Heavy nods his head in agreement.

Only one word comes to mind: Sweat-drop. I'm not sure whether to fall over in thanks or in disbelief.

He pulls back the handle on the Medi-gun and floods the Heavy in its gaseous blue, healing rays. The Russian revs up his giant gun.

With wicked smiles on their faces, the Heavy and the Medic leap up from behind cover.

Sasha starts whirring. "IS KILLING TIME!" Heavy roars.

The Demoman and Soldier give a wail of surprise, mixed with the war cry of the Heavy/Medic duo, and the sound of a firing mini-gun echoed throughout the yard as I bolted away and towards the first control point.

Maybe I can hide up the balcony area of the RED building.

* * *

To say the BLU Soldier and the Demoman were mildly surprised would be an understatement. Heavy is an imposing tank of a man at the best of times. The addition of his huge weapon about to fire just cements terror into your mind.

That being said, being afraid tends to impede other thought processes that may be going on. These things can be quite important things. It takes them all a second to realise the bullets aren't actually doing anything to the pair. It takes said pair another second to realise who is firing at them.

"CEASE FIRE, MAGGOT!" The Soldier screams at the Heavy/Medic pair in sheer fury.

"AYE, STOP A'FORE AH TAKE MAH STICKIES AND MAKE YEH INTO AH LASS!" Bellows the Demoman.

Sasha stops firing and slowly whirrs to a halt.

Now free from suppressive fire, BLU Soldier runs over and practically rams his face into the Russian's. "THIS IS MUTINY, YOU COMMIE! FIRING UPON A SUPERIOR OFFICER! I SHALL HAVE THE TWO OF YOU COURT-MARSHALLED!" He screeches.

Heavy says nothing, but his expression indicates to his medical ally that the Soldier would have his helmet rammed down his throat if things continued like this.

The Medic steps up. "Zhe Sniper vas convinced you vere a Spy." He says, calmly adjusting his glasses.

The Heavy nods in affirmation. "Da."

"Wha' the bloody 'ell?" The Demoman slurs in confusion.

The Soldier puffs out his chest in authority. "We have been infiltrated by an enemy Spy, capable of attacking using our own weapons with losing his disguise."

The Medic near snorted in disbelief. "Das ist völliger Unsinn! Zhe Administrator vould nevar allow it." He replied, hotly.

"Is not possible!" The Heavy added in his two cents.

The Soldier's face went near purple at their insubordination. "Are you questioning me, Kraut?!" He barked.

The German doctor was clearly tempted not to even dignify that with an answer. The patriot mistakes the silence for surrender and continues.

"Both the hardhat and the camper saw him open fire on the RED team using the Huntsman, and Sniper was clearly using his rifle for today's match." The Soldier went on, coming as close as he possibly can to a talking voice volume.

Now it's the Medic's turn to look confused. "Vait…you say both zhe Engineer and Sniper saw zhis Spy use Herr Sniper's weapons while disguised?"

"I'm afraid zhe Soldier is correct, for once." Came a voice.

The Demoman, who had been a passive listener in the conversation up until this point, gave a shout of surprise and whipped out his Scrumpy bottle, flailing it in the general direction of the noise.

A blue, velveteen glove catches his wrist.

Demoman stood in shock for a second before he recognises the identity of the man in front of him. "BLOODEH SPAI!"

"Damn it, Frenchie!" The Soldier, who had jumped back with his shovel at the ready, chipped in.

The BLU Spy released the Demolition man's hand stiffly, before adjusting his tie with his usual haughty air.

The Medic tried to move the conversation back on track. "So, you have seen zhis suppozed Spy too, Herr?"

The backstabber took a lengthy drag of his cigarette. "Oui."

He turned to the Soldier. "Neizher of you imbeciles realised he was hiding behind zhe barrels while you were talking." He snarked.

The Soldier's jaw tightened while the Demoman frowned darkly.

The Spy continued to the other members present. "He used you two as an opportunity to escape. I watched him flee to zhe RED's base."

The Scotsman's face darkened. "Yah let 'im go, ya backstabber?!"

"One does not engage an unknown enemy without any information." He bit back. "Eizher way, I would 'ave been seen and taken out by zhe RED team if I had tried."

He replaced the cigarette in his mouth.

"I was also able to briefly examine zhe RED Soldier's body before it was taken by respawn," he continued. "Zhere was no doubt he was killed by a headshot using zhe bushman's bow."

"So zhat Sniper…" The Medic started.

A voice interjects. "Why would RED Spy fight against puny baby RED team?"

This remarkable gem of overlooked knowledge came from, quite possible, the least expected source.

The Spy dipped his head. "…Zhat, we do not know zhe answer to."

That statement leaves behind an uncomfortable silence.

"So, ve eizher have RED Spy breaking zhe rules," The German began. "Or another Sniper haz been drafted onto our team wizhout our knowledge or consent."

The American growled, angrily. "Maggot, if we were going to get another team-mate, it would be a true-blue, American Soldier! Not another camper from kangaroo land!"

"I also seriously doubt he would resemble zhe Sniper to such an extent." The Spy put in. "Not to say that we 'aven't seen an already disturbing resemblance of ourselves in zhe enemy team." He finished before the Medic could interject.

The Soldier and Demoman took clear offence at this statement.

The Spy and the Medic just rolled their eyes. The Heavy just looked confused.

The moment is stopped as the speakers start up and the Announcer's voice coldly intones over the battlefield.

* * *

"_**Mission ends in 10 seconds." **_

Oh, thank God. The round is ending. I don't think I could've taken much more of this, hiding from everybody including what is essentially my own team. But, two real-life headshots. Yay.

Next round I'm going to try like hell to get out of here. This place is a nice vacation spot, but you wouldn't want to live here, if you know what I mean.

Wait, I'll respawn the same room as everyone else and they see me straight away. And if they're anything like BLU team, they'll probably think I'm a Spy and try to blow me to kingdom come.

Wait…Spy, that's it! If you're trying to hide and go about your business unmolested, which class is better than the Spy? He has a disguise kit and an invisibility watch, for God's sake!

Now-

There's a noise from behind me. Rounds of being backstabbed by Spies kicks my adrenaline into full gear. I leap forwards and swing myself around in time to dodge the deadly swipe of the BLU Sniper's kukri knife.

Oh, I am so sick of this homicidal bull-****. Not even from the enemy team, but being chased around by these guys, on top of everything else. I've had a mentally destroying experience and no one needs to add to it!

I shove the Huntsman back into my pocket (dimension) and pull out the Bushwacka.

"Wot the bloody 'ell do you want?!" I bark angrily at my carbon copy.

"Well, I was thinkin' of cutting you a new smile, Spook." Comes the quite serious reply.

Why does every freaking being on the whole planet think I'm a Spy?! "How about you piss off, you wanka!" I snarl in return.

The Sniper's eyes flash from behind his yellow aviator glasses. "Backstabbnin' snake!" He growls.

"Blind-eyed bastard!" I yell back.

Over our heads, the Administrator's frosty voice continues with the count-down.

"_**Mission ends in 5…"**_

There's no time left. I have to switch to Spy now! "Change class!"

The Australian assassin goes on the attack as world greys and the list pops up.

"_**4…"**_

I take another step backwards, blocking another slash from the bushman with my own weapon. "Spoi!" Colour returns and the character list vanishes. A sentence rings in my head.

***You will respawn as Spy***

"That's not gunna work this time, wanka." The Sniper menaces.

Oh, jeeze, I haven't set the character to suicide when you want to change class.

"_**3…"**_

"Change load-out!"

My vision greys again. My Spy load-out appears in front of my eyes.

Oh God, which one had the Cloak and Dagger?

Out of the corner of my observed vision, I watch as the assassin readies his kukri. He lunges.

"_**2…"**_

"Load-out B-No, C! Load-out C!"

I dodge the oncoming blade's slice. The Sniper closes in, pushing me further to the wall.

The suited image of the man flickers and then, finally, alters slightly as his golden pocket-watch is replaced by a silver wristwatch.

"_**1…"**_

My back hits the wall. I exhale. "Finished."

"You certainly are, mate." The sharpshooter readies a final blow.

"_**You've failed!"**_

The Sniper's knife disappears, along with his rifle and SMG. With them follows my Huntsman and Bushwacka.

There's a sudden burst of commotion from the RED building as the team charge out of their base, intent on finishing off any member of the BLU team still alive.

The Sniper looks astonished.

I, meanwhile, am not sticking around with someone who tried to kill me with a knife. "See yah!" I yell at him before bolting away back to the BLU side of the map.

I take off, heading for the overlying balcony area near BLU base. It's easy to hide up there and most times people don't even check up there.

Across the bridge and up the metal staircase, the sound of gunfire and dying voices screaming behind me. Up in the little alcove area, hands gripping the railing, I take a few deep breaths.

Without warning, an arm is flung around my neck. I choke, latching my hands onto the tightening limb, trying and failing to pull it off. A push to the back of my legs forces me onto my knees.

The arm's owner speaks up from behind me. "Bonjour, _bushman_. I don't zhink we've been properly introduced."

Oh, no. I freeze as a real, genuine fear creeps into me. Not the Spy. Anyone, even Soldier, but not the Spy.

"Time is short, so I'll cut to zhe chase. I want your name and what you're doing here."

I try to mask my fear. "Piss off."

The arm tightens around my neck. "Who are you working for?"

"Gah!"

Come on, I think desperately, let the round end! Just let it end, I can't take much more of this!

A familiar, yet not, feeling of being blown by a cool night breeze, mixed with the scent of cigarettes and perfume overcomes me. I sigh in relief and cease to exist.

* * *

With a successful defence of the last control point and a recorded victory for the first round, the mood and morale of the RED team was riding high. Having been warped back to base after dishing out some humiliation on the enemy team, the RED's were clearly determined to turn their victory into a winning streak. Once again, eight mercenaries burst forth from the respawn/resupply area, keen to get as much of a hold on the first control point as a possible.

However, the RED Mann of Espionage was still in the room. He had, for a brief and startling moment immediately after being dropped back into respawn, thought that he had seen a duplicate of himself appear and vanish into thin air. The RED Spy stared at the patch of wall, looking for any irregularities. He could have sworn he saw it out of the corner of his eye…

The doors roll open to reveal the Pyro poking his head back into the respawn area. It takes him a second for him to notice the Spy's lack of movement.

"Mmhm mmmh, Mmah!" the gas-masked man 'says', motioning his hand out towards the door in a definite 'Come on' gesture.

The Spy appears to ignore him for a second, before turning to face the fire-bug with his usual poker-face.

"Hmmph."

The Pyro just watched the Frenchman stride passed him, then gave an exasperated shrug of his shoulders, as if to say 'Man, Spy is just weird sometimes.' He too followed after his ally, causing the door slide shut.

A few seconds after the metal roller door closes, the sound of decloaking is heard as another RED Spy materialises out of nothing. He takes his hands off of his wrist, where the button for the Cloak and Dagger rests.

The figure breaths through nose in relief. "Zhat went better zhan I expected." I whisper, reaching into my pocket and pulling out what appears to be a silver cigar case.

I open up the disguise kit. While I look through the computerised images of the characters that flash across the little screen, I instinctively I grab a cigarette and wrap my lips around it.

The bitter, chemical taste soaking onto my tongue is what causes me to realise what I've done. It causes me to spit suddenly as I remove it from my mouth. I stare at the offending tobacco in mild disgust.

"What zhe 'ell am I doing?" I turn and casually flick the cancer stick away.

Backstabbing is one thing, but there's no way in hell I'm taking up smoking.

Speaking of which…

A very vindictive smile blossoms on my face.

It's time for a story. I'm thinking of the romance tale about the unrequited love between my Spyicle and a couple of people's spinal column…

* * *

**You know what? Trying to WRITE ACCENTS is HARD as #$%&!**

**Anybody with some experience at writing for these guys, drop me a line. Dialogue with these characters makes my head hurt.**

**I like making the Heavy smart. He does have a PhD, after all. Though I think I didn't made the Soldier dumb or crazy enough. :P**

***The Medic says (in German): "That is utter nonsense!"**


End file.
